


My Enemy, My Ally

by adamwhatareyouevendoing



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Dom/sub Undertones, Falling In Love, Handcuffs, M/M, Power Bottom, Undercover As Prostitute, if nothing else i am now an expert on locations in Paris, or maybe overtones idk, porn with plot what is this, re-establishment of consent is sexy, this ended up being sappier than i originally planned, who am i kidding i'm rubbish at angst and drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-27
Updated: 2017-07-27
Packaged: 2018-12-07 09:27:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11620731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adamwhatareyouevendoing/pseuds/adamwhatareyouevendoing
Summary: PHILIPPE FERON.These are the two words on the piece of paper that Treville passes to Marcheaux across the table, written in capitalised stark black letters. A name. The name of one of the richest, most powerful businessmen in Paris. Someone with that level of power does not go unnoticed, both by the press and now, apparently, the police.A modern AU where Marcheaux goes undercover and returns to his past in order to discover whether Feron is funding the mafia.





	My Enemy, My Ally

**Author's Note:**

> Otherwise known as the Pretty Woman AU, even though I haven't yet seen Pretty Woman, so any resemblance is purely hilarious chance. (Edit: I have now seen Pretty Woman, and I am pretty impressed with past me. A great film.)
> 
> Starring Feron and Marcheaux as the star-crossed lovers; Grimaud as definitely-not-Feron's-neighbour; Milady and Richelieu as bosses of crime (*cough* police); Treville and the Musketeers as more police; Anne and Constance as ridiculous cuties; a friend for Marcheaux; and the Bourbons as a surprisingly supportive, if crooked, family unit (apart from Marie, but what else did anyone expect?).
> 
> Title from [Pillowtalk](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C_3d6GntKbk) by Zayn.

_PHILIPPE FERON._

These are the two words on the piece of paper that Treville passes to Marcheaux across the table, written in capitalised stark black letters. A name. The name of one of the richest, most powerful businessmen in Paris. Someone with that level of power does not go unnoticed, both by the press and now, apparently, the police.

“Your mark,” he tells Marcheaux. His eyes flick around the room, as though looking for a sign that someone is watching or listening in.

They aren’t; Marcheaux already scoped the place when he walked in instinctively. A superior officer asking to meet a cadet in a café is not usual practice. Marcheaux had been expecting a training exercise, but the way that Treville is behaving sets him on edge.

Seemingly satisfied that they are alone, Treville then slides a newspaper clipping across the table, bearing a photo of the mark. Marcheaux hopes that he manages to keep his expression neutral and show no recognition, despite it being the first time he’s seen that face properly in years.

“I want you to find out what this man is up to,” Treville continues, which means he is thankfully unaware of the fact that Marcheaux’s heart is pounding wildly in his chest, throat painfully dry. “The seedy underbelly of the city is far more active than we really know, and we’ve barely even scraped the surface.” There’s a manic glint in Treville’s eye now. “Their operation is so wide reaching that someone, somewhere has to be bankrolling it.”

This is clearly far more than a training exercise. Marcheaux points to the name and the photo on the paper below. “And you think it’s him?”

“Where’s the best place to hide if you don’t want to be noticed? In plain sight. And he’s had a significant change in fortunes recently.”

That is true at least; Feron has gone from being the sole director of an investment company known only because of the prominence of his late father, Henri Bourbon—a name synonymous with Parisian business and society alike—to the joint director of a thriving familial dynasty in less than two years.

“So, what?” Marcheaux asks. “I’m to infiltrate his business, snoop around and see if he’s funding the mafia?” He doesn’t mean to be flippant, but this seems like an impossible task for someone who hasn’t even passed police training. He knows his face says as much.

“You do have the best score of anyone in your intake in surveillance and counter-surveillance. And for this operation I wanted a clean-skin,” Treville says.

 _A clean-skin_ , Marcheaux thinks wryly, _perhaps not so much_. But hiding in plain sight he can do. If it’s a strategy that has worked for Feron, then hopefully it will work for him too.

“Why me though?” Marcheaux asks. “Of the people you could have chosen... D’Artagnan, for instance.” The boy is top of the class, after all, it would make sense. Treville has never exactly liked Marcheaux, but D’Artagnan almost seems like a younger version of the man; he has a passion for justice and a righteous desire to do good that Marcheaux has never felt.  
  
“These are serious people,” Treville says, as though he needs reminding of that fact. “D’Artagnan is a bit too... enthusiastic. He’ll make a fantastic policeman, just not undercover. You see,” Treville continues, “it’s going to be trickier than just infiltrating his business. We’ve tried that, three times in fact. They were all discovered.”

“Then what?” Marcheaux asks, expecting a detailed, well-organised plan.

But Treville only shakes his head and actually looks apologetic, which is an expression Marcheaux never thought he’d see on the man.

“That’s where I leave it up to you, I’m afraid,” he says. “We haven’t got a lead on the man, and no resources to find one. I can provide a credible backstory if needs be, and someone to report to, but that’s as far as it goes.”

Marcheaux nods, despite his initial shock. He knows from experience that Feron is careful; they always had a reason to be. It should not be any different now. “Got it, Captain.”

Treville looks carefully at him, and Marcheaux thinks that maybe he should have attempted to protest, but it’s too late now. He sits there and stares him out.

Eventually, Treville relents. “I’m sure I don’t need to impress upon you the seriousness of this operation.” He is back to the stern superior that Marcheaux recognises. “This is top secret. Not even the Prefect of Police knows.” He checks the room again, as though expecting Richelieu to be suddenly standing behind him, like an apparition summoned by his title.

“What?” Marcheaux asks unchecked, in disbelief. “Isn’t that against protocol?”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” Treville says. A cadet questioning the motives of a superior is a sure way to get fired.

“What about de Breuil?” Marcheaux chances. She is the second-in-command, after all.

Treville shakes his head. “Plausible deniability. Or, in this case, total deniability I’m afraid. If this goes wrong, you’re on your own.” Marcheaux can’t be sure whether that’s for the benefit of the police force, or just Treville thinking about himself. “But if you do pull this off, there’ll be a position for you here, no question.”  
  
“So, what? If I don’t then I’m out on my ear for real?”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Treville says, sounding like he doesn’t really mean it. “This operation is too important to mess up.” He pushes a burner phone across the table. “Take this. If you need anything, just call the number that’s programmed in, and we’ll do our best to help you.”

Marcheaux resists the urge to push it back; instead he tucks it into his jacket.

“Good luck, Marcheaux,” Treville says.

The use of his name, rather than his title, resonates with him. He knows what Treville means by it, but somehow it feels more significant than that; like a book closing, rather than just a page being turned.

 

-

 

Marcheaux leaves the Prefecture an hour later, the few belongings he’d left in his locker now stuffed in a rucksack, and doesn’t look back until he is safely across the Pont Saint-Michel. It’s the briefest final look at the place he had hoped would become his future. He should have known it wouldn’t last.

Now his past is his only future, no matter what Treville said.

The cruellest irony is that somehow, unknowingly, Treville has picked the only cadet that knows Feron. At least Marcheaux hopes that it is unknowingly, and that he is the only one. He tries to ignore the way his skin crawls at the thought of another of his colleagues knowing Feron the way he does—or at least did, once.

He returns to the small flat he has kept throughout his time in police training, helpfully funded by his previous occupation, and makes a beeline for the wardrobe. There’s no point in delaying the inevitable; he knows what he’s here for, and what he’s going to do. Treville might not have a lead on Feron, but Marcheaux does.

The plastic bag he seeks is stashed on the second lowest shelf, behind a pile of jumpers he hasn’t touched since winter. He tips the bag over his bed with trembling hands, watching as the clothes inside tumble onto the sheets.

The first time he wore these clothes he was 20 years old and standing on a street corner. The particular night-time activities enjoyed around the Porte Dauphine were a quick and easy way of making money, with the added benefit of being close to both his university and the business district, where clients were willing to pay more.

It had made sense. Money and sex, with no strings attached. Until he had met Feron.

Feron had been different from the moment he pulled up in his car and rolled the tinted window down far enough to fix Marcheaux with his deep brown eyes, dark with more than just intent. He had looked at Marcheaux as though he was seeing _him_ , rather than just what he wanted him for. Not that Marcheaux would ever complain about what he wanted him for; they were certainly well-suited for that, if nothing else.

He might not have seen Feron in three years but the thought of him still stirs those feelings of warmth within him. Looking at the jeans and t-shirt in front of him, he feels it anew. The clothes are tighter now when he pulls them on, but they still fit. Marcheaux hopes that if he finds Feron, they will still fit together too.

He is glad that darkness has already begun to fall; he finds now that he cannot wait. If he is going to fall it might as well be headlong.

 

-

 

That night he takes the metro to Les Sablons, then traces familiar steps towards the street corner. Rather than heading straight for the small gathering of men lounging against railing and wall however, Marcheaux lurks in the shadows of an opposite building front, cast in darkness, waiting.

Feron doesn’t turn up that night; nor the next; or the next.

On the fourth evening, Marcheaux decides he needs a more direct course of action. It feels strange to take that final step; to cross the street until he is standing on the pavement that holds so much of his past.

Max doesn’t move from his usual spot against the wall as Marcheaux approaches.

“Well, well, well,” he drawls, eyeing Marcheaux’s attire with interest. “Look what the cat dragged back.”

“Evening, Max,” Marcheaux says quietly and is relieved when his friend smiles back, kicking off the wall to pull Marcheaux into a hug. “I’m looking for Feron.”

Max quirks an eyebrow in interest but doesn’t ask the obvious question. “I heard he uses an agency now,” he tells Marcheaux. “Too high class for us. He got rich, you know?”

“Yeah, I heard,” Marcheaux says impassively.

“That why you’re interested in him again?” Max winks.

“Something like that.”

They both pause as a car pulls up. A young, skinny, dark-haired boy that Marcheaux has never seen before climbs into the passenger seat. Marcheaux watches as it drives off, then turns back to see Max looking at him carefully.

“What?”

Max shrugs, as though he isn’t going to say anything, then thinks better of it. “He never came back, you know, once you left.”

Marcheaux is floored. “What?” he says again, unable to form further coherent words.

“Yeah, the last time we saw you was the last we saw of him too. You always were his favourite.” Max studies his expression, then chances saying, “We lost good business there,” with a grin.

Marcheaux allows himself to smile back, despite the admission weighing heavily on him.

“Any idea which agency?” he asks, before the moment passes.

“What do I get in return?” Max waggles his eyebrows suggestively.

“I’ll buy you a drink,” Marcheaux says, not rising to the bait.

“Deal,” Max grins. “Though darling, you know we’d be great together.” He accompanies the words with another wink.

Marcheaux shakes his head with despairing amusement. “Just give me the name, Max.”

 

-

 

A week later, Marcheaux takes a seat in an interview room at the Orléans Agency’s offices; the agency of choice for the Parisian elite apparently, due to their stringent checks and strict confidentiality agreements between all parties.

He sits across from a squat, greying man who has a thick Dutch accent and wears an excessively tailored suit. The man insists that Marcheaux should refer to him only as Gideon.

Gideon is an odious creep, but Marcheaux is using him as a means to get what he wants just as much as Gideon is using him to get money. In some fucked-up way, it’s probably fair. Marcheaux needs to find Feron, it’s as simple as that. He had no qualms about doing this in the past, and there’s no point in starting now.

At the end of the process, Gideon offers him his hand and Marcheaux shakes it in acceptance. He’s one step closer to Feron.

 

-

 

His first client meets him at an upmarket hotel on the right bank. It’s not far from Marcheaux’s new day job at the Louvre, courtesy of the backstory Treville provided. There’s a pale line around the man’s finger, where a ring should be. Marcheaux lets himself be fucked into the mattress and tries to imagine that it is Feron’s face above him. It is easier to bear that way. The man thanks him when he’s finished and rolls away. Marcheaux doesn’t bother asking if he wants him to stay. He dresses in silence and leaves.

His second client is more involved and doesn’t appear to be married, which is a bonus. There are photographs adorning the walls, of family and friends, as far as Marcheaux can tell in the low light of the apartment. The place feels homely, lived-in. It feels less sordid like this, so Marcheaux complies with the man’s every request, including leaving afterwards. He doesn’t care that he’s not considered worth the price of an overnight stay.

 

-

 

Two nights later, the agency calls with an address for his third client. It is an apartment in the business district. Apparently, the man has a very specific taste in the sort of person he requests as a partner, and Marcheaux fits the criteria exactly. A rush of hope flares brightly in his chest.

He puts down the phone and heads to his bedroom to dress in the suit provided by the agency. All this week it has looked wrong, hanging there in his wardrobe, out of place. Even wearing it has felt like a charade. Tonight it is worse; he is a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

Half an hour later he is taking unfamiliar steps out of La Défense metro station and towards the apartment complex that the client lives in. It is a warm autumn evening, reminiscent of when he started on the streets in the first semester of university. He passes a number of people on the walk and hopes he doesn’t look too obviously like an escort. At least in his suit he appears to fit in amongst the businessmen only just leaving their offices to head for home.

The lights inside the apartment complex are blindingly bright. Marcheaux takes the lift up to the 12th floor, trying to ignore the erratic rhythm of his heart, which is pounding so hard against his rib cage it feels as though it’s actually taken up residence in his skull.

The lift glides smoothly to a halt. _This is it._

He follows the hallway along, until, at last, he finds the apartment. He pauses outside. If it is indeed Feron behind this door, as he suspects it is, Marcheaux isn’t certain how he’ll react to seeing him again after all these years.

There’s only one way to find out. After all, he won’t make any money standing in the hallway all night. He raises his hand to knock.

Of all the things he expects when the door opens, he is perhaps least prepared for Feron’s sharp intake of breath, and the way he says “Georges?”—low and reverent, with more than a hint of surprise.

Marcheaux may have regretted giving Feron his real name a number of times in the past, particularly since they parted, but now, hearing it said like that, he can’t find it within himself to care.

Feron is staring at him as though he is an apparition, conjured straight from his wildest imaginations. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” he says, voice rough. He sounds as wrecked as Marcheaux feels.

Marcheaux knows that they are both thinking of the last time they saw each other; when his hand had lingered on the door handle of their hotel room as though waiting for some sign to keep him there. But Feron had remained silent, so he left without a second glance.

“I could say the same,” Marcheaux replies, managing to keep his voice neutral as he allows Feron to close the door behind him.

“What happened?” Feron asks. “Last I saw you, you were headed on to bigger and better things.”

“Didn’t work out,” Marcheaux shrugs. “Turns out the gutter is the only place that wants me.”

Feron gives him an appraising once-over. Marcheaux shifts slightly under the scrutiny, even as warmth unfurls in his stomach at the familiarity of it. Feron’s eyes are blazing with intent when they meet his again.

“This is a far cry from the gutter.”

Marcheaux thinks of the oppressive darkness of the street corner and the harsh lighting in the dingy hotel room they used to frequent. Feron is right; this is nothing like that.  
  
“I’m still selling myself,” he says. Feron doesn’t need to know that he agrees. “It’s not so dissimilar.”

Feron looks at him like he wants to argue the point. Perhaps he wants to insist that this is more than business. Or perhaps it’s Marcheaux that wants him to.

“But look at you now, the most powerful man in Paris,” Marcheaux murmurs. He does not mean for it to sound so much like a compliment. “Why not the streets anymore, why this?” he asks quickly, to deflect the attention back to Feron.

“More is expected of me now. More scrutiny on my actions,” Feron says, moving to lean against the sofa in the centre of the room. “This way at least I can ensure confidentiality.”  
  
It makes sense, but Max’s words still ring in Marcheaux’s head. It doesn’t explain why Feron never returned to the Porte Dauphine after Marcheaux moved on.

“You a society sweetheart now then?” he asks instead.

Feron smiles at the turn of phrase and it twists something inside Marcheaux to see it again after all these years.

“There’s more engagements to attend now, certainly. I rather find myself in need of a plus one.”  
  
“Ever tried meeting someone normally?” Marcheaux asks, chancing a joke.  
  
Feron’s eyes narrow and Marcheaux wonders if he’s overstepped the mark.  
  
Then Feron shrugs. “Relationships take effort.” An expression passes across his face that Marcheaux cannot read. “I have no need for feelings.” His lips quirk slightly at the word.  
  
Marcheaux does not find it attractive, he does not. This is not about finding the man attractive. But facing Feron once more, after all this time, Marcheaux feels like he’s twenty again and meeting him for the first time. The last three years apart might as well never have happened.  
  
“Just sex then,” Marcheaux says, and hopes his voice conveys nothing.

He remembers clearly the first time they were together like this, his hand shaking as he turned the key in the hotel room door, Feron pressed close to his back. _He’s just another client_ , he had tried to tell himself. It wasn’t true then and it isn’t true now.

“Yes,” Feron agrees, crossing the room, until, at last, he is in front of Marcheaux, so close that he could touch him if only he was brave enough to lift his hand.  
  
It is Feron who reaches out first, across the chasm between them. His fingers brush the lapels of Marcheaux’s jacket, stroking the fabric softly. He watches the path of his fingers with interest, moving with the rise and fall of Marcheaux’s chest, undoubtedly able to feel the way his heart is pounding beneath them.  
  
Feron looks up at him then, his eyes kindling. Marcheaux’s breath stutters out of his throat at the invitation he sees there. Feron must recognise the answering pull in his eyes, because he moves his hands to grip Marcheaux’s lapels tightly, using them to pull him forwards until they are only a breath apart.

Marcheaux barely has time to think _oh, shit_ before Feron’s lips are on his.  
  
They have kissed before, of course, but never like this. This feels like lovers reacquainting after a long and bitter separation. It is open and vulnerable and honest. It is like speaking without words. It is a language that neither of them has ever learned.

Marcheaux pulls at Feron’s lip with his teeth as he breaks the kiss. “I want —” he starts, throat closing on unformed words. This isn’t about what he wants. He cannot forget himself completely; no matter what they once may have been to each other, they are it no longer. Feron is the client. Everything that happens here is up to him.

But Feron is of the same mind, and always has been. He reaches out to stroke the backs of his fingers across Marcheaux’s cheek, soft and possessive. It twists something deep inside him, something nameless that he refuses to bring out into the light to examine further.

Then Feron slides his thumb along his lower lip, eyes blazing, drawing Marcheaux out of his thoughts. He sucks the thumb into his mouth, savouring the way Feron’s eyes darken as he swirls his tongue around the tip. A sharp edge of teeth against the pad of his thumb and then Feron is drawing it out slowly, spreading wetness across his lip. They have not yet looked away from each other.

“Fuck,” Marcheaux groans quietly, his trousers suddenly tight across his crotch.

Feron’s mouth quirks into a smile. “Quite.” His hands come to rest on Marcheaux’s shoulders.

Marcheaux knows what that means; knows what Feron wants without asking. Unlike the kiss, this at least is familiar. Easy.

He drops to his knees.

“Fuck,” Feron says, above him, as his fingers undo belt and button and zipper.

“Quite,” Marcheaux responds, unable to stop himself from grinning, looking up at Feron from beneath his eyelashes.

“Fewer words, more action,” Feron grits out.

Marcheaux opens his mouth to tease him for his impatience, but then Feron is pushing down his own trousers and boxers in one swift move. It’s his turn to curse again, under his breath, all humour gone from his voice.

He has not dared to imagine this for three years. He cannot, for the life of him, remember why.

“Georges,” Feron says, a breathless note of anticipation in his voice.

Marcheaux looks up to meet his gaze, then leans forward slowly, deliberately, to take Feron’s cock into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the tip in a mimicry of earlier. Feron bucks up into the welcoming heat; a short, sharp movement that he cannot control.

“Sorry,” he murmurs in a rush of breath.

Marcheaux draws off only long enough to whisper, “Don’t be,” before taking his cock back into his mouth. He rises higher on his knees, adjusting the angle. Feron groans in appreciation and winds a hand into his hair; not to hold him down, but just to touch. Marcheaux knows the difference.

“You’re so fucking beautiful like this.” Feron’s voice is almost wondrous, as though he’s forgotten how true the sentiment is.

Marcheaux blinks up at him, wishing that the compliment didn’t affect him as much as it does. He is painfully hard in his trousers. He sucks lightly at the head of Feron’s cock before taking him deeper, lips stretched wide.

Feron’s free hand grips at his shoulder as he moves, fingers pressing hard enough to leave a mark. After breathless minutes, he pulls lightly at Marcheaux’s hair, too gently to hurt, but enough to still his movements.

“If you carry on like this, I won’t be able to fuck you.”

Marcheaux shakes his head instinctively, causing Feron to groan, before pulling away to look up at him. “I want to give you this first.”

“And I need to be inside you,” Feron says, but it’s more of a command than a statement. “Would you deny me that?”

Marcheaux swallows heavily. “No,” he says, voice almost a whisper.

“Good,” Feron responds with quiet authority, pulling his trousers up with one hand, then guiding Marcheaux to his feet with the other, fingers tight on the silken material of his tie.

Marcheaux, in a haze, finds himself moving through the living room and into the bedroom, distracted by the intent in Feron’s words and the fire in his eyes.

They come to a halt in front of the bed. There is no time to marvel at the fact that he is here, in Feron’s bedroom, after what feels like a lifetime of impersonal hotel rooms, because Feron’s hands are at his belt, unbuckling it with nimble fingers, before pushing his trousers and boxers down his thighs.

Marcheaux manages to gather his wits in time to kick off his shoes, pulling off the offending articles to pool in a heap on the floor whilst Feron grabs lube and a condom from his bedside drawer.

Then he is bending Marcheaux easily over the bed with a strong hand to his neck, the other slowly tracing a path down his spine, leaving a trail of heat in its wake despite the shirt between their skin, to stretch him open with two slicked fingers. He pushes Marcheaux’s face into the bed in a familiar move.

“Is this okay?” Feron asks, and at that moment his fingers crook inside him at just the right angle.

Marcheaux groans into the duvet, the sheets swallowing most of the noise. He twists his head to the side, Feron’s grip allowing the movement so that he can answer with a groaned, “ _Yes_ ,” like a blasphemous prayer on his lips.

“Good,” Feron says, low and predatory, and even though Marcheaux can’t see his expression from this angle, he can imagine it.

“Fuck, _more_ ,” he pleads, grinding back deliberately against those torturous fingers.

Feron tightens his hold once more against the back of his neck, turning his head towards the sheets to muffle the increasingly incoherent sounds he finds himself making.

“I’ll—decide—how—I—fuck—you,” Feron says, voice quiet and steady with command, punctuating each word with a thrust of his fingers.

Marcheaux remains obediently silent, and after a few moments, Feron sees fit to reward him by adding a third finger alongside the others.

“There,” he pants, and Marcheaux finds pride in the breathy word, a sign that Feron is slowly unravelling with him.

“Please,” he begs into the duvet, aware that he is disobeying Feron’s order but unable to help himself.

Feron must also be unable to wait any longer because he does not reprimand him. Instead, he draws his fingers out slowly, ignoring Marcheaux’s impatient groan, which turns into a needy whimper when he withdraws them entirely.

Marcheaux hears the soft sound of fabric behind him as Feron pushes his own pants down once more, then the rustle of the condom wrapper.

“Undress and get on the bed,” Feron commands, “on your knees.”

Marcheaux complies quickly, too desperate to have Feron inside him to be ashamed at how readily he obeys. The bed doesn’t creak as he settles, nor when Feron joins him, kneeling between his spread legs. Feron was right when he said that this was nothing like it used to be.

Then Feron pushes in, and perhaps it is not entirely different; they have always been at their best like this. He has craved the feeling of Feron’s body against him for years.

One of Feron’s strong hands finds his hip, using it to anchor himself as he rocks his hips forwards and back, in and out, in a relentless motion. His other hand toys at the base of Marcheaux’s throat, not choking, but pressing with exploratory fingers as he traces the sweep of his collarbone.

“You’re so good for me, so good,” Feron says, and Marcheaux clenches helplessly around him at the praise.

Feron’s hand slides up into his hair, tugging his head to the side and bending to bite a kiss into the soft skin of his neck, just on the curve of his shoulder, where the collar of his shirt can cover it. Only they will know that the mark is there, branding him as Feron’s.

“Please,” he begs again in barely a whisper, voice wrecked.

The hand in his hair withdraws, and Marcheaux waits with baited breath to find out where Feron will deign to touch him next, hoping, hoping.

“Tell me what you want,” Feron breathes, close to his ear.

“Touch me,” he begs, voice shaking, “ _please_.”

Feron hums against his skin. “Well, since you ask so nicely…” And finally his fingers close around Marcheaux’s cock.

Neither of them last long after that. Marcheaux comes first, thighs trembling as he spills between Feron’s fingers, clenching around him; Feron follows with a breathless groan of his name.

 

-

 

Marcheaux wakes to the feeling of Feron tracing a fingertip across his back. The touch leaves a trail of soft raised hairs in its wake, imprinting the letters on his skin. It feels as though he is writing his initials. The idea of belonging to Feron does not bother him as much as he knows it should.

He opens his eyes slowly. The low light of the room indicates that evening has given way to night.

“Should I go?” he asks quietly, not daring to turn and look Feron in the eye. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep.  
  
Feron shakes his head and Marcheaux can feel the movement against the pillow. “This is my apartment. Here, at least, I can ask you to stay.”  
  
Marcheaux knows they are both thinking of the hotel room, where neither of them felt they had the right to request that the other remain.  
  
“It’ll cost you,” he says, hating the fact that he even has to mention the agency’s charge rate. He shifts onto his back so he can see Feron’s face.  
  
“Good job I’m rich then,” Feron says, smirking at him. He curls an arm across Marcheaux’s chest so he can’t leave the bed. As if he would try to.

“Okay,” Marcheaux whispers breathlessly, surrendering himself.

Feron shifts closer, encouraging Marcheaux to move onto his side once more, so that they are pressed together down their whole length; back to chest, and thigh to thigh.

“Mon Chevalier,” Feron whispers against his skin, and Marcheaux’s breath stutters in his chest, both at the endearment and in remembrance of the first time Feron ever said it, his eyes dancing with amusement. Marcheaux could not have known at their first meeting that the false name he gave was Feron’s own, until that moment. He had gone against every rule in the book by telling Feron his real name after that, but Feron had seemed more than content to play the role he had unwittingly created for them.  
  
“Monsieur,” Marcheaux replies instinctively, and Feron’s arm tightens around him.  
  
_So much for not getting in too deep_ , Marcheaux thinks wryly as sleep claims him again, the warmth of Feron’s body against his back pulling him under.

 

-

 

A beeping sound breaks into the warm haze of his dreams, causing Marcheaux to wake with a start. It takes him a moment to register that the noise is that of an alarm clock that is not his own; that he is not in his bed; and that there is an arm slung low across his hip. He raises his head off the pillow to check the time. _5:45_.  
  
“Ugh,” he groans, with feeling.  
  
The arm withdraws from around his body and the alarm shuts off.  
  
“Good morning to you too,” Feron murmurs, and Marcheaux can hear the smile in his voice.  
  
“Nothing about waking at this time can be considered good,” he grumbles.  
  
“Oh, I don’t know,” Feron murmurs, suddenly close to Marcheaux’s ear. He presses himself deliberately against his back. “I could think of a way to improve it.”  
  
“Fuck,” Marcheaux says, feeling himself respond. Feron’s sleep-roughened voice should not be so attractive. This is new, unfamiliar territory. They have never woken up together in the morning before.  
  
He thinks of all the ways he had planned to wake Feron in the old days, if only he’d had the chance.  
  
Suddenly, he is not tired at all.

 

-

 

Feron leaves that morning with a promise that Marcheaux can stay until he needs to go to work himself.

He has just got out of the shower when he hears a noise from somewhere in the apartment. He pads through the bedroom, towelling his hair dry with one hand.  
  
“Philippe?” he calls, walking into the living room.  
  
The man lounging on the sofa is definitely not Feron. Marcheaux is glad he thought to put on his boxers.  
  
“Not quite,” the man drawls, kicking his feet up on the coffee table. He seems unfazed by Marcheaux’s state of undress.  
  
Marcheaux’s police training attempts to kick in; all his instincts are shouting at him to fight or run. He does neither. Instead, he drops down onto the sofa across from intruder and tries to look as at ease as possible. He has as much right to be here, if not more so.  
  
“Who are you, then?” he asks, and is surprised with how calm his voice sounds.  
  
The man shrugs, rolling his head back to rest against the cushions. “Just a concerned neighbour.” He fixes Marcheaux with a hard stare, his cold blue eyes searching. “You?”  
  
Marcheaux does not forget all of his training, at least; he can play the man at his own game. “Just a one-night stand,” he says coolly, not breaking eye contact.  
  
The man smiles, but there is nothing friendly about it. “If you were,” he says, sharp white teeth gleaming hungrily, “you wouldn’t still be here in the morning.”  
  
“Make a habit of checking up on your neighbour’s sexual exploits, do you?” Marcheaux returns, emphasising the word ‘neighbour’ to show that he doesn’t believe the man at all in who he is pretending to be. He seems far too comfortable here.  
  
The man’s eyes narrow as he leans forwards, scrutinising Marcheaux piercingly. “I take an interest when he leaves the exploit in question in his apartment, yes.”

Marcheaux resists the urge to shift uncomfortably. _I have nothing to hide_ , he tries to tell himself, keeping his gaze steady.  
  
Eventually, the man relents, relaxing back into the cushions.  
  
“He’s a lucky man,” he comments, raking his eyes over Marcheaux’s body in a way that is both reminiscent of Feron’s appraisal from the night before, whilst also being the furthest thing away from it. Feron’s eyes had held a possessive appreciation that kindled warmth in Marcheaux’s belly. This man just makes his skin crawl.  
  
Marcheaux shrugs, affecting an easy air. “It’s not up to him. He doesn’t choose who he gets.”  
  
“Oh, I don’t know,” the man drawls. “Looking at you, I wouldn’t be surprised if it turns out it is entirely up to him.”  
  
Marcheaux has no idea what he means but tries not to let it show on his face. As far as this man knows, he has no emotional investment in Feron and no reason to care what he does, or who he does it with.  
  
“Well, as wonderful as this little tête-à-tête has been, I do actually have somewhere else to be,” Marcheaux says to cover his confusion, and absolutely doesn’t flinch when the man stands abruptly.  
  
“See you around then,” he says, with one final assessing look. Marcheaux holds his gaze.  
  
The man stops in the doorway, looking back at him.  
  
“I’m Grimaud, by the way,” he says, before closing the door behind himself.  
  
It sounds like a warning.

  
  
-

  
  
Marcheaux calls Feron on his walk over to the Louvre, dialling the number on the card Feron had given him before leaving that morning. He picks up on the second ring.  
  
“Feron speaking.”  
  
Marcheaux cannot stop the smile that spreads across his face at hearing his voice. _You saw him only this morning; get a grip_ , he tells himself. Then he has to stop thinking about earlier because those thoughts are completely inappropriate for being in public.  
  
“Marcheaux speaking,” he returns, cringing at his own poor attempt at humour.  
  
To his surprise, Feron laughs softly. “Are you still at mine?”  
  
“Just left actually.”  
  
“Shame,” Feron murmurs, voice low and suggestive, and this time Marcheaux is the one to laugh.  
  
“Seriously?” he says incredulously.  
  
“What?” Feron responds innocently, but Marcheaux can tell that he is grinning deviously. “You’ve never had phone sex at work?”  
  
“No,” Marcheaux splutters. “I can’t believe you _have_.”  
  
“I’ve got no one here to reprimand me.”  
  
Marcheaux does not choke at the image his words conjure, but it’s a close thing.  
  
“I’m in public,” he hisses. “I’ve got to work after this.”  
  
“Me too,” Feron returns easily.  
  
“Yeah, but at least you can hide behind a desk,” he grumbles. He’s surprised at how easy this is, how comfortable it feels to exchange words with Feron in this way.  
  
He almost doesn’t want to ruin it with the real reason he called, but luckily Feron shifts the conversation for him.  
  
“So what did you call for, if not a bit of fun?” he asks. “Not that it isn’t good to hear your voice anyway, but I assume there was something else?”  
  
Marcheaux has to remind himself to breathe through the ache that Feron’s words create.  
  
“Do you know someone called Grimaud?” he asks, throat suddenly tight.  
  
“Yes,” Feron says, a question in the affirmation.  
  
“Well, that’s something I suppose,” Marcheaux says dryly, “considering he was in your apartment this morning interrogating me.”  
  
“What?”  
  
Marcheaux isn’t sure if he’s imagining the anger he can hear Feron’s voice. To be fair, it would be justified even though Feron knows the man; people don’t generally expect others to break into their properties, even if they are friends.  
  
“Yeah, he let himself in.”  
  
“Are you—?”  
  
“I’m fine,” Marcheaux assures, making an assumption about the end of the question. “He just seemed to find it interesting that I’d spent the night.”  
  
“Well,” Feron says, “it’s not exactly commonplace.” He is quiet for a few moments. “Okay,” he continues, as though reluctant to admit it, “it’s never happened before.”  
  
Marcheaux cannot hide his shaky exhale at the admission.  
  
“Not that that excuses his actions,” Feron adds, covering the silence.  
  
“It’s alright,” Marcheaux says, “no harm done.” He has no idea how to voice the other questions filling his head without seeming too inquisitive. He cannot risk blowing his cover. Instead, he says, “I just thought you’d want to know that someone broke into your place.”  
  
“Thanks,” Feron says with a small huffed laugh. “I’ll tell him to knock next time, shall I?”  
  
“Yeah, good idea,” Marcheaux grins, glad to return to the ease of earlier. “It’ll at least give me a chance to put some clothes on first.”  
  
“What?” Feron exclaims in mild alarm, and Marcheaux laughs loudly, causing a couple of passers-by to look at him, startled.  
  
“I wasn’t completely naked if that makes it any better,” he says, lowering his voice so as not to traumatise any more innocent members of the public.  
  
Feron makes a noise like a half-laugh, half-choke. “Good to know,” he murmurs, and just like that, Marcheaux is blushing again.  
  
“Right, I’m at work now, gotta go,” he says briskly.  
  
Feron laughs at his quick deflection.  
  
“See you at mine tonight then? Around 7,” Feron says. Marcheaux knows it isn’t really a question, but he appreciates the courtesy.

“Of course,” he agrees.

“And you know how to get hold of me if you get bored in the meantime,” Feron continues lightly.  
  
Marcheaux rolls his eyes. “See you later,” he grins, and ends the call.

  
  
-

  
  
Feron greets him at the door that night and immediately leads him towards the bedroom.

“Well, you’re eager,” Marcheaux comments with a grin, but to his surprise Feron merely shakes his head in amusement.

“You’d better get changed quickly, we’ve got a car picking us up in 10 minutes.”  
  
“What?” Marcheaux says uncomprehendingly, as they stop in front of the wardrobe.  
  
“Did I not say earlier?” Feron puzzles, brow creased. “We’re going to a charity event tonight.”  
  
“Oh,” he says. “No, you didn’t.”  
  
“Must have been distracted,” Feron says, and Marcheaux could swear he gives him a quick wink.

Only then does he notice that Feron is wearing a smart black tuxedo.

“Um,” he says, distracted now himself. “I don’t have a tux.”

Feron looks slightly bashful. “How then would you rate the possibility that this is yours?” he says, opening the wardrobe with something close to a flourish.

Marcheaux manages to tear his eyes from Feron long enough to look where he is gesturing. A tailored grey three-piece tuxedo hangs in the wardrobe. Marcheaux doesn’t know much about fashion, but this suit is seriously beautiful, meaning it must also have been seriously expensive.

“Wow,” he says. “Is this one of yours?”

Feron shakes his head. “All yours.”

“Did Grimaud have a laser tape measure with him this morning?” Marcheaux asks with amusement, beginning to undress unashamedly.

Feron’s eyes are fixed on him as he laughs. “I called the agency to get your measurements. That wonderful suit of yours”—he gives Marcheaux’s body an appreciative once-over—“is clearly tailored. My tailor is even better.”

“I can see that,” Marcheaux returns, admiring Feron openly whilst he buttons his freshly-pressed shirt.

Feron is looking at him like he’s considering skipping the charity event altogether, and getting to the undressing part sooner rather than later.

 

-

 

The building they pull up in front of has a grand exterior, rainbow flags running the length of the columns either side of the entrance. Marcheaux suddenly feels very inadequate. He is here on the arm of one of the most influential and richest men in Paris. He is nothing in comparison.

Perhaps Feron senses his discomfort because he presses Marcheaux’s hand, where it rests on his forearm, and gives him a reassuring smile.

“This is all a bit Pretty Woman,” Marcheaux murmurs under his breath.

“I think you’d make a great Julia Roberts,” Feron returns, with a smile that Marcheaux is sure is caused by the look of surprise on his face. “Please, don’t ask,” Feron says, with a small shake of his head, but then he catches sight of someone coming towards them through the large entrance hall. “And here she is,” he cries delightedly, “the woman responsible for my romantic education.”

Marcheaux turns to see a blonde-haired young woman approaching them with sure, unhurried steps.

“What have you been saying about me, Philippe?” Her voice is crisp, as though every word that passes her lips is carefully considered, but there is a teasing edge to the words.

“That I blame you for each and every rom-com I’ve had to suffer through.”

She places a perfectly manicured hand on his arm. “That’s true,” she whispers, as though revealing a highly classified piece of information. They share a conspiratorial smile. “Although I, in turn, entirely blame Constance.”

Marcheaux turns to where the woman is now looking and sees a young brunette, presumably Constance. Noticing that she is being watched, Constance politely excuses herself from the person she is talking to and hurries over to the woman’s side.

“Georges,” Feron says in introduction, “this is Anne, a very dear friend of mine, and her partner, Constance.”

“Lovely to meet you,” Anne says, taking the lead, and holding her free hand out for Marcheaux to kiss.

“Likewise,” he murmurs, and repeats the motion on Constance’s proffered hand.

“So, how long have you known Philippe?” Constance asks as they walk through to take their seats in the main hall.

He cannot stop his eyes from flicking to Feron and finds him already looking back at him. They share an amused smile.

“A few years now,” he admits, and something in his expression must convince her because she doesn’t ask any further questions, despite the fact Marcheaux expects Feron has never mentioned him, for obvious reasons. “We only got together recently though.”

He can hear Feron telling Anne a similar story across the table, embroidering the tale with a chance meeting at the Louvre. It sounds like a wonderfully romantic first sighting, and Marcheaux finds himself wishing it were true, yearning for something simpler than whatever this is.

Constance has turned to listen to Feron too, allowing Marcheaux to watch him, unguarded, whilst he spins his story—their story. A fairy-tale meeting for two people who could never be pure and innocent.

 

-

 

Feron takes to the stage for the welcome address as patron of the charity, whilst Marcheaux looks on, smiling proudly, and looking for all the world like a supportive boyfriend.

It is only once the dinner and auction are over and the crowds are mingling again that Marcheaux spots a familiar face. There is nothing he can do; D’Artagnan has caught sight of him too.

A quick glance to Feron confirms that he is still politely talking to an acquaintance that Marcheaux was introduced to, but can’t remember the name of. All he knows is that the man is extremely boring, but at least he provides enough distraction for Marcheaux to slip quietly from Feron’s side without drawing any attention.

“What are you doing here?” he hisses at D’Artagnan, drawing him into conference a few feet away from anyone he has been introduced to tonight.

“I could ask you the same question,” D’Artagnan replies, with an arched eyebrow.

“I asked first.”

“I’m here with Athos, if you must know,” D’Artagnan says haughtily.

“I thought he was married.”

“Divorced, actually.” He scowls. “Why are you here?”

“I’m with my partner,” Marcheaux says, but D’Artagnan just laughs, a harsh mocking sound, his eyes flicking down to take in Marcheaux’s obviously-new suit. It feels like he might as well have a big neon sign above his head flashing the word ‘escort’ to the world.

“How the mighty have fallen,” D’Artagnan scoffs. “Oh, but then again, you never were very mighty, were you?”

Marcheaux has no idea what story Treville told the other cadets as to the reason for him no longer being among their ranks, but the expression of dislike on D’Artagnan’s face must mean it was a pretty character-reducing reason for dismissal.

“Fuck off,” he returns pleasantly.

D’Artagnan smirks. “Well, see you around. I’m gonna go home with my boyfriend now.” He emphasises the word deliberately.

If they weren’t in a public place, in refined company, Marcheaux would flip him off as he turns his back and walks away, linking arms with Athos as they leave together. Not that it matters; D’Artagnan might be leaving with a senior police officer, but Marcheaux gets to go home with Feron.

He turns away from the doorway in the wake of D’Artagnan’s departure in time to see the man himself approach.

“Who was that?” Feron asks.

“An old friend,” Marcheaux says, hoping desperately that Feron will assume he means from the streets.

“I don’t recognise him.”

“Yeah, well, you only had eyes for me,” Marcheaux replies with relief, watching a flush rise high on Feron’s cheeks, caused by more than the alcohol.

“That’s true,” he murmurs, lowering his voice so that only Marcheaux can hear him. “What do you say to getting out of here now?”

“Hell yes.”

 

-

 

They have barely made it over the threshold of Feron’s apartment before he is pushing Marcheaux against the door, using the momentum to shut it behind them, the lock clicking loudly at the force of the movement. Feron’s kisses are almost bruising as they press against his neck, trailing a path towards his lips.

“It almost seems a shame to take this off,” Feron pants into his mouth, running his hands down Marcheaux’s chest, the fine fabric of the tuxedo beneath his fingers.

“Fuck the suit,” Marcheaux returns, biting at Feron’s lower lip whilst he attempts to tear Feron’s own jacket from his shoulders. “You could rip it off and take me here for all I care.”

Feron’s eyes are dark and hungry when they meet his. “Don’t tempt me,” he says, rolling his hips against Marcheaux’s, once, deliberately.

His hands grip at Marcheaux’s forearms, preventing him from removing anything more than his jacket, before trailing down to circle his wrists, pinning them against the door.

Marcheaux cannot stop his hips stuttering forwards, desperately seeking contact and some sort of friction.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Feron says, moving Marcheaux’s hands above his head to grip both wrists with one hand. He accompanies the move with a thrust of his own hips. “I decide what you deserve. What I’ll give to you.”

Marcheaux trembles against the restraint. He could easily break out of it if he wanted to, but this is about more than the physical hold and they both know it.

“Perhaps I _should_ fuck you here,” Feron muses, using his free hand to slide down the zipper of Marcheaux’s trousers and pop the button open. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Maybe I should make you beg for it.” His fingers trace the length of Marcheaux’s cock, the fabric of his boxers providing delicious friction.

Feron is watching his expression with interest. Marcheaux knows he looks thoroughly debauched already; mouth parted, eyes half-closed.

“Or maybe I should get you off here, like this, and then take you until I’m satisfied.” Feron’s voice is calm and considering now, the desperation of earlier having cooled somewhat, even though his eyes still blaze with lust.

Marcheaux fights not to move, not wanting to disobey his orders, but Feron must see the agreement in his eyes anyway because his hand slips inside Marcheaux’s boxers to touch him properly, skin to skin.

He drops his head to Feron’s shoulder, muffling his grateful moan into his shirt, the fabric wetting beneath his lips. Feron, in return, bites a kiss into the soft skin of his neck beneath the opened collar of his shirt.

Feron’s hand speeds up, the friction edging towards painful, but Marcheaux wants that too; wants everything from him. His arms are shaking from the effort of being held above his head and he can no longer control the way his body yearns for release.

“Please,” he gasps, and it seems that this is what Feron has been waiting for, his eyes softening where they hold Marcheaux’s own, caught.

“Good boy,” Feron says, the praise his permission. Marcheaux shudders through his release, Feron’s hold on his wrists and the weight of his upper body pressed against him the only things keeping him upright.

Feron holds him there until he can support himself again, then he gently releases Marcheaux’s hands, fingers brushing against the thin skin of his inner wrist as they drop to his side. His other hand withdraws from Marcheaux’s pants, wiping the mess quickly on his handkerchief.

“You might have no respect for the suit,” Feron says dryly, “but I do. Plus, I have to get it dry-cleaned.”

Marcheaux smiles in return. Despite the calm words, he can feel Feron’s erection pressing insistently against his hip. He raises his hands to begin undoing the buttons of Feron’s shirt.

“I seem to remember something about getting fucked,” he says matter-of-factly, enjoying the way Feron growls low in the back of his throat.

“Bedroom, now,” Feron commands.

This time, with the immediate urgency of arousal cooled, Marcheaux can appreciate following him towards the king-size bed. The story Feron had woven at dinner comes back to him in a flash of clarity. He might have found himself wishing for different circumstances then, but now—watching Feron as he finishes Marcheaux’s work on his buttons and carefully hangs the shirt up in his wardrobe—Marcheaux knows that he wouldn’t change anything that has happened because somehow those events have brought them to this moment.

Then Feron turns from the wardrobe, wearing only his trousers, and regards Marcheaux with a calmly raised eyebrow. “Are you planning on undressing?”

Marcheaux just stands there, distracted by the pale skin of Feron’s chest and the light smattering of hair that continues down from his stomach. He might be a good few years older than Marcheaux, but god he looks good.

Feron is across the room in an instant, an almost predatory gleam in his eyes, to take hold of the lapels of his jacket. “I can’t fuck you like this.” His tone causes a new spark of arousal to coil low in Marcheaux’s belly.

His fingers pull at the buttons of Marcheaux’s shirt carefully, controlled, but with a determined ferocity. He shoves off both shirt and jacket, then makes quick work of pushing down Marcheaux’s still undone trousers and boxers, before starting on his own.

This isn’t the first time Marcheaux has seen him fully naked, of course, but this morning they had mostly been covered by the sheets, and three years is too long to be able to recall Feron’s body with full clarity. But now he stands there in front of him, almost defiantly, as though opening himself up to Marcheaux’s scrutiny.

“You are —” Marcheaux starts, and once more his words stick his throat. He is not used to giving compliments, and less so in meaning them. “God, you’ve _always_ been.”

Feron's mouth twists in what Marcheaux hopes is understanding of what he means—of everything he cannot find words to express.

Instead, he says the only thing he can say.

“Fuck me, now.”

 

-

 

A week later, Marcheaux gets a summons on the burner phone. It is lucky he is at his own flat tonight, on a rare night that he is without Feron.  
  
He makes his way towards the café, but something about it feels off. He wants to think he’s just being paranoid, but this is the first night he has been apart from Feron, and he could swear there is someone following him.

He makes use of all the counter-surveillance techniques he learnt in training; doubling back on himself across the Pont de Sully and using the looping streets of the Île Saint-Louis to cover his movements. By the time he crosses the Pont Marie he is confident that he is no longer being watched, so he continues to the café.  
  
“So?” Treville asks impatiently, before Marcheaux has even taken a seat. “What have you found out?”  
  
“Nothing yet,” Marcheaux says.

“Quit stalling Marcheaux, I know you’ve met him.”

“Who told you?” Marcheaux asks, thinking of D’Artagnan at the charity event. He didn’t think he’d recognised the link between Feron and himself, but it isn’t out of the realms of possibility.

Treville scowls. “Leon has been following you.”  
  
“ _You_ put a fucking tail on me?” Marcheaux says incredulously, suddenly angry. Treville isn’t his boss anymore; he doesn’t have to restrain himself. He had thought that Feron was on to him, but no, it was just Treville, not trusting him enough to leave him to his own devices. He scrubs a hand across his face, weary now that the adrenalin has drained from his body. “Jesus, you said I was undercover. Having someone follow me is just gonna make me more obvious. Call him off.”  
  
He glares at Treville until he nods and gets out his phone.  
  
“Done,” Treville says, pocketing the phone once more. “When were you going to tell me you’d made contact?”  
  
The accusation in his tone riles Marcheaux once more.  
  
“When I had something to share,” he spits. It’s true; so far he has nothing on Feron. He’s searched his apartment, googled every name and every detail that has been mentioned, and found nothing. “As you said yourself, I’ve only just met the man; I can’t just walk into his life and ask about dodgy business dealings. I’m not exactly in a prime position here.”  
  
He’s referring to the other officers that Treville tried to use before, who were inside Feron’s company, and at a clear advantage. Treville must know it because his brow darkens.  
  
“Then get yourself in one. Every day you waste is a day that that man remains free.”

It seems like the outcome of this operation is already predetermined, at least to Treville. Marcheaux tries not to think about the fact he couldn’t bear to see Feron behind bars.  
  
He has a job to do, after all.

 

-

 

Marcheaux leaves the café and takes the metro from Châtelet. This time he is certain he is not being followed. He is relieved to see Max on the street corner, in his customary position against the wall, and heads directly to him.  
  
“Come on,” he says, “I’m buying you that drink I promised.”

“I’m gonna need more than one drink to cover the loss of tonight’s earnings,” Max says with a smile, but kicks off the wall anyway to fall into step beside him.  
  
“Alright,” Marcheaux agrees. He needs more than that anyway if he is going to be able to forget Treville’s words that still ring in his head.  
  
“What’s the occasion?” Max asks as they settle inside the nearest bar, an old haunt of theirs in the past.  
  
“I needed a break,” Marcheaux says honestly. _And there’s no one else I can turn to_ , his brain supplies helpfully.  
  
He leaves Max at a table in the corner whilst he goes to order their drinks, and he’s barely sat down when Max leans over the top to fix him with a stare.  
  
“So, come on, spill.”  
  
“Shit,” Marcheaux says, with feeling. He’s only just taken a sip of his drink; he’s nowhere near drunk enough for this conversation yet.  
  
“You can’t just drag me away and not expect me to ask why,” Max points out, annoyingly reasonably, but delays further questioning until they are four drinks and two shots in. Then he says, “So, did you find Feron?”  
  
“Yeah,” Marcheaux says, trying to ignore the way his stomach lurches at the name, “I got a job at the agency.”  
  
“How did he react?” Max dares to ask, looking at the conflicted expression on Marcheaux’s face. “Seeing you again, I mean.”  
  
“Better than I thought he would, actually,” Marcheaux says. He thinks back to that first evening; how he had, at best, expected the door to be slammed in his face. “It was like nothing had changed.”  
  
“So what’s wrong then? You wouldn’t need this”—Max gestures around to indicate the drinks, the bar, the fact Marcheaux had come to him so desperately—“if everything’s going well.”  
  
Marcheaux thinks carefully on how to word it. He might be drunk, but he’s not careless; he can’t drop his guard completely. He cannot trust Max with the whole truth, no matter how heavy the burden weighs on him.

“I can’t — I can’t keep doing this job _and_ be with him,” he says eventually. He thinks of the police, of course, but it fits with Max’s knowledge of his work.  
  
Max nods in what he thinks is understanding. “I take it you’ve had other clients then?”  
  
“Two, before. None since him.” A sick feeling twists in Marcheaux’s gut. “But it can only be a matter of time, right?” He hadn’t even considered that his situation could get even more complicated. Not only is he expected to send Feron to jail, he’ll have to destroy him further by fucking other people in the meantime.

Max looks at him sympathetically and Marcheaux is impressed that he can recognise the expression with the amount of alcohol in his system.  
  
“Do you love him?” Max asks quietly. It’s vaguely terrifying to finally hear a word put to it; this feeling he’s known but ignored, and certainly not voiced aloud.  
  
“You know that’s a bad idea in our line of work,” Marcheaux says, taking a sip of his drink and aiming for nonchalance.  
  
“Stupid,” Max agrees, “but not impossible. Do you?”  
  
“I… Yeah,” Marcheaux admits, because there’s no point in denying it. It’s probably written plainly on his face anyway. The only consolation right now is that he’s drunk and hopefully won’t remember his pathetic confession in the morning. He’s not sure how he’s going to face Feron again either way.  
  
Max nods like he’s known it all along. “Then you’ve gotta decide where your loyalty lies,” he says, and it sounds pretty fucking simple when he puts it like that. “Is your job really worth walking out on him a second time?”

 

-

 

Marcheaux wakes the next morning to his mobile buzzing insistently on the nightstand. This is the first time he’s slept in his own bed for a while and it momentarily disorientates him not to be woken by Feron’s alarm.

Thinking of Feron makes his heart drop as the events of yesterday come rushing back with alarming clarity.  
  
His phone stops ringing, then starts up again. He turns onto his side and groggily opens one eye when scrabbling around with his hand is unsuccessful in locating it. At last, success.  
  
It’s Feron.

Marcheaux takes a steadying breath before he picks up, hoping that Feron will not detect any hint of his inner conflict in his voice.  
  
“Hi,” he murmurs, dropping back to the pillows.  
  
“Morning,” Feron replies, and Marcheaux can hear something like relief in his voice as he exhales. “Did I wake you?”  
  
“Yeah,” Marcheaux says, rubbing a hand across his eyes. The light in the room is far too bright for the pounding in his head. “No worries though. Have we got another engagement tonight?”  
  
“Actually,” Feron begins, “I was planning a weekend getaway.” Something in his voice makes Marcheaux sit up to pay better attention. Feron sounds like he hadn’t planned to tell him quite like this. “Pack an overnight bag, and I’ll see you at mine for 12?”  
  
“Okay,” Marcheaux finds himself agreeing, speaking before his brain catches up. He can’t exactly refuse Feron—the man is paying for him, after all—but something feels off and he can’t quite put his finger on what it is. Maybe he’s letting his own fear colour the conversation, but he doesn’t think it’s just that.  
  
He is still puzzling it when he catches sight of the clock. “Ah,” he says dryly. “I’d better pack a bag quite quickly then.”  
  
Feron huffs a laugh, but even that sounds wrong to Marcheaux’s ears.  
  
“Did you miss me that much?” he jokes, desperately trying to bring them back to normality.  
  
“Something like that,” Feron says tightly.  
  
“Hold on,” Marcheaux says, as his brain finally engages, “it’s only Friday.” This feels important, somehow.  
  
“I’ve taken the day off. Perks of being your own boss, remember.” Feron’s voice seems easier now.  
  
“Lucky you,” Marcheaux teases, and is rewarded with a small laugh. “See you in half an hour then, Monsieur.”

The endearment is his last-ditch attempt to salvage something out of this.

 

-

 

The unease doesn’t settle until they are out of Paris.

Feron is saying all the right things, doing all the right things, but they sit wrong somehow. Like he is keeping something from Marcheaux.

He cannot shake the image of Feron’s relieved expression when he had greeted him at the door, as though he had almost expected him not to show up. The surprise had heightened when Marcheaux realised that there was no chauffeur to drive them.

“Where are we going?” he finally thinks to ask, breaking the silence that has settled between them since they reached the A1.

“There’s a place, near where I grew up. My mother used to take me there on holiday when she could.” Feron’s voice is different now; easier, quieter, more reflective. He has never really spoken of his mother; the side of his family that society doesn’t really know about, or care about, more likely.

Marcheaux says as much, softly, not wanting to break the peace that seems to have settled over them. Feron turns to look at him, just briefly. Marcheaux watches a small smile pull at the corner of his mouth.

“What do you want to know?” Feron asks, and Marcheaux has a feeling that he will answer whatever he asks honestly.

He thinks over what does know, from reading in the press and little things Feron has revealed over the years. He knows that Feron’s mother and father had an affair whilst she was working as his secretary. He knows that Henri ultimately chose to stay with his wife and enjoy the life that high-class society offered, essentially abandoning Feron and his mother. He doesn’t really know anything that happened between then and Feron inheriting his father’s business, alongside his half-brothers, when Henri died.

So he asks, and Feron tells him of how his mother raised him in her hometown; of how he lived with her until she died.

“I was 13,” he says quietly, and Marcheaux finds himself reaching out to press his thigh. Feron drops one hand briefly from the steering wheel to cover Marcheaux’s hand with his own. “It’s okay,” he says in reply to Marcheaux’s wordless apology. “It was a good time. Peaceful.” He sounds almost wistful.

“It didn’t last, I take it?” Marcheaux dares to ask.

“No.” Feron’s huffed laugh is edged with a bitterness he cannot hide. “Surprisingly my stepmother didn’t take kindly to raising the offspring of her husband’s affair. She still refers to me as the ‘bastard son’.”  
  
“Bastard?” Marcheaux repeats incredulously, biting back a laugh. “Does she think we live in the 17th century or something?”

Feron looks at him again, and his laugh is lighter this time. After a quiet moment of reflection, he adds, “It made it easier at least, to immerse myself in my studies. There was no love lost between her and myself, and my father and I never really connected. I think he felt guilty, choosing duty over love.”

Marcheaux glances out of the window, suddenly unable to look at him. He is glad that Feron’s eyes are focused once more on the road, so he cannot see how Marcheaux is torn over the same choice.

 

-

 

The house they pull up in front of is nestled in the hills, seemingly miles away from any civilisation. Feron seems more relaxed here, breathing deeply in the fresh air. Marcheaux feels completely the opposite.

 _Why are we here?_ he wants to ask, but doesn’t.

“The place we used to stay in was a little way down there,” Feron says, gesturing towards the valley stretched out before them. “I would see this house, lights twinkling, in the distance. I bought it as an escape from the bustle of the city.”

“It is secluded,” Marcheaux agrees. The trees rise up high above them, shielding the place mostly from view.

He tries to think about how he would have reacted if Feron had brought him here in the years before. Likely he would have been touched that Feron wanted to share this part of his life with him; perhaps evidence that he cared about Marcheaux, to bring him to such a significant place from his childhood.

He reaches for that feeling now, desperate to feel anything but overwhelming guilt and crippling fear that everything they have built together is about to be destroyed again. He takes hold of Feron’s hand and holds tight. “Thank you,” he says, hoping that his voice isn’t trembling as much as it sounds to his own ears.

Feron looks at him and smiles. Perhaps if he heard the quiver in Marcheaux’s voice, he took it as heartfelt gratefulness. Which, despite the fear, is true as well. This is what it could be like to be with Feron properly.

He finds that he yearns for it.

 

-

 

That night, when Feron presses him into the mattress, Marcheaux studies his face carefully, trying to commit every expression to memory. He can’t know that Feron is doing the same.

Once he is certain that Feron is asleep, curled next to him, he slips out from under his arm and climbs out of bed. Behind him, Feron makes a small noise, but thankfully doesn’t wake. He pads over to the window and stares out into the darkness. The trees are silhouetted by the moon, casting long shadows across the ground.

He has no idea what to do. If he left now, grabbed his bag and headed into the night, he knows it wouldn’t be long before Feron found him. He has no idea where to go from here.

There is another soft noise behind him as Feron shifts. Marcheaux turns to look down at his sleeping form. His face is so peaceful. Marcheaux knows then that he can’t just walk away again.

The first time he left, to join the police, it was in an attempt to do something honourable with his life. Leaving this time would not be honourable.  
  
Instead of running, he does the only thing he can do—he slides back into bed. Feron stirs slightly when Marcheaux settles next to him. Their eyes meet in the low light.

“Why are we here?” Marcheaux finally asks quietly, into the darkness, unable to contain the question any longer. The words burn in his throat.

Feron is silent for so long that he almost expects him not to reply. Then he pulls Marcheaux close once more.

“We needed to get out of Paris,” is all he says, pressing his hand flat to Marcheaux’s chest, over his heart.

Marcheaux’s stomach sinks at the tightness in Feron’s tone. Tonight, the weight of his arm is not reassuring; tonight it feels like a prison.

 

-

 

Feron takes him to a restaurant the next evening. It turns out that it is only a short walk from the house, along a stony path up the hill. Feron catches hold of his hand and doesn’t let go until they are at the doorway.

The restaurant is a little stone building with a roof terrace. It is here that they are led to a table; the only two occupants, in secluded privacy. Feron draws the waiter into a private conference, but Marcheaux is too far away to be able to overhear what is being said. It sets his nerves on edge.

The sun is slowly beginning its downward journey to the horizon, bathing the terrace in a warm light. The setting could be romantic, if only they were here in different circumstances. Instead, it feels like he has stepped into a cage with a tiger.

Feron gestures for him to take a seat. “I took the liberty of ordering for us,” he says, voice unreadable. “That way we can be left alone sooner.”

The intensity in his eyes, along with the thrill of his words, would normally kindle a fire in Marcheaux’s belly, but not tonight. Tonight, he feels a shiver run through him.

“It’s just a sharing platter, I’m afraid,” Feron adds, unaware of Marcheaux’s inner turmoil. “I’m not overly hungry.”

“Are you saying we should have worked up more of an appetite?” Marcheaux responds suggestively, unable to help himself. They spent all morning in bed as it was. Marcheaux wishes he could have appreciated learning the lines of Feron’s body in this new light, rather than it feeling like goodbye.

Feron laughs lowly. “Perhaps,” he returns, his own voice warm.

A silence settles between them, but, despite the tension, there is still something comfortable about the quiet.

Their food arrives and Marcheaux is glad that it is not a large meal; he is too nervous to be hungry. If Feron feels the same, he plays it off well. Marcheaux strives to look as relaxed as he does. Conversation is light as they eat; a brief snatch of words here, a lingering look there.

Then the waiter returns to clear their plates and Feron nods at him. When he retreats, he closes the door to the terrace behind him. There is no escape now.

Marcheaux looks from the door to Feron. It is now or never.

“Why did we need to get out of Paris?” he asks without preamble, hoping that Feron cannot hear the tremor in his voice.

He braves reaching out to stroke the back of Feron’s hand, where it rests on the table between them. The contact doesn’t soothe his frayed nerves, but if it is to be the last time he touches Feron, he is going to make the most of it.

Feron looks unsurprised at the question, as though he has been expecting it, but watches the movement of his hand with interest. Then he looks back up to fix Marcheaux with intense eyes.

“You tell me,” he says quietly, “police cadet Marcheaux.”

Marcheaux withdraws his hand quickly, as if burnt.

“You know.” It’s not a question. He can feel the sense of dread which has settled in his stomach since last night tighten into a knot.

Feron nods; a victorious little motion. “To your credit though, Georges, it was through no fault of your own. You’ve been... very convincing.” The words tear something within Marcheaux, to find that Feron thinks it has all been an act. “But Grimaud followed you, the other night.”

“I knew it,” he says honestly. He had known, deep down, that it couldn’t have been as simple as it appeared that night. “I was careful.”

“You were,” Feron agrees. “You didn’t put a foot wrong. Managed to shake him, in fact.” He sounds almost proud. “But you also knew, then, that he wasn’t the only one following you?”

“Oh,” Marcheaux says. Then, “Yes.”

“Well, Grimaud noticed him almost immediately. You can understand his suspicion.”

Marcheaux nods. Someone with nothing to hide would not be being followed, late at night, to a secret rendezvous. Despite the severity of the situation, he allows himself a moment of amusement at the fact that in the end, Treville was responsible for blowing his own operation, when he had been at such pains to conceal it.

“Trust me, I didn’t ask for a tail,” he says, bitterly.

Feron mouth twists into something that could be a smile. “I can believe it. Unfortunately, he couldn’t shake Grimaud like you.” Feron grimaces slightly, and Marcheaux thinks he can only identify the expression because he knows him so well. “He was easy to break, I’m told.”

“Is he okay?” Marcheaux asks. It was not Leon’s fault, after all; he was only following instructions, like Marcheaux himself. He thinks of Grimaud’s cold, piercing eyes. He wouldn’t put anything past the man.

To his relief, Feron nods. “He gave up your boss though, I’m afraid, in exchange for his life.”

Marcheaux shrugs. “I don’t care about Treville,” he says honestly.

“Good job,” Feron says wryly. The words leave no doubt in Marcheaux’s mind that Treville met his end at the hands of Grimaud.

“Might be a bit suspicious though, don’t you think? A superior police officer just disappearing?” He has a feeling that, whatever happened to Treville, his body will never be found.

“Unlikely,” Feron admits. “Grimaud has many people working for him, including those who have infiltrated the high ranks of the police.”

“Oh,” Marcheaux says. Suddenly he understands the importance of the operation’s secrecy.

“Indeed,” Feron agrees. “I think people will believe whatever story the Prefect of Police gives, don’t you?”

Marcheaux nods, not trusting his voice. Feron studies his face, like a shark looking for a sign of weakness. His gaze drops to Marcheaux’s hand, clenched on the edge of the table, almost as though he is considering reaching out to touch him.

The moment passes. Feron stands, moving to lean against the balcony railing, and stares out into the darkness. Marcheaux keeps his eyes fixed on his back and waits for him to speak again. Everything he wants to say himself sticks in his throat.

Eventually, Feron turns to face him again. “So, were you indeed sent to investigate me?” he asks quietly.

The question hangs in the silence between them, and for one wild moment Marcheaux wonders if he would believe him if he denied it. But there is no point in living a lie now; he can’t go back, either way.

“I was,” he says, but finds that the admission does not lighten his burden.

“Well, congratulations on getting closer to me than anyone else ever has.”

Marcheaux isn’t sure if he’s imagining the flash of hurt that passes across Feron’s face.

“I – I didn’t —” he starts, but knows that he cannot really deny it. He knows well enough that he would have struggled to return to Feron if not for this. “I had hoped —”

“What?” Feron interrupts bitterly. “That you could escape without telling me why?”

“Again, you mean.” It’s a statement, not a question. He is ashamed at the truth of it.

“Yes,” Feron admits.

Marcheaux finds himself standing then, to join Feron at the railing.

“I owe you the truth,” he says, into the night. He cannot bear to look at Feron as he does so.

Feron remains silent next to him as he finally tells him why he left all those years ago—how he had hoped to do something honourable that he could tell his parents about. It is nothing but a source of bitterness now.

“It turns out I couldn’t escape you though,” he says, and knows that this is the moment he could lose Feron forever. “The day Treville told me that he wanted me for his operation, I could only ever say yes.”

“Why?” Feron asks quietly. “Were you really that desperate to ruin my reputation?”

“No,” Marcheaux says emphatically, finally turning to look at him.

“Because you know,” Feron continues, as though he hasn’t heard Marcheaux’s protest, “you already had a way to do that.”

“No,” he repeats, more forcefully this time. Feron is still not looking at him, so he reaches out with a daring hand to touch his arm. Feron flinches, but at least turns to face him. “I would never have done that. I don’t hate you.”

“Then, why?”

Marcheaux smiles sadly. “I didn’t realise it, that moment in the café when Treville recruited me, but by that evening I knew. I wanted – no, needed – to see you again. At least this was a way to guarantee it. Even if you’d hated me, it still would have been worth it.”

“I don’t hate you,” Feron says, echoing Marcheaux’s earlier words. “Certainly not then —”

“And now?” Marcheaux asks, knowing that he has to hear it.

“I still don’t.” There is barely time to marvel at the fact, as Feron continues, “Even though I presume your operation was to discredit me somehow.”

Marcheaux nods. “Treville believed you’re funding the mafia.” The accusation hangs there until he can bear the silence no longer. “I was sent to prove it.”

“And what did you find out?” Feron asks.

“Nothing,” Marcheaux admits honestly. “I know Grimaud is not your neighbour, but beyond that, nothing.”

“Perhaps I owe you the truth then, too,” Feron says.

Marcheaux opens his mouth to protest but then closes it again. Treville is gone; what does it matter if he discovers it now?

“After all,” Feron continues, “I wouldn’t want your efforts to be wasted.”

The tear in his chest rips further at Feron’s continued belief that it has all been an act on his part, but he remains silent as Feron confirms Treville’s suspicions. His company has indeed profited from investing in Grimaud’s illegal activities. Marcheaux doesn’t feel as triumphant as he thought he might, discovering what trained operatives could not.

“But your boss was wrong about one thing. It was not me who initiated the partnership.”

“Then, who?” Marcheaux finds himself asking. Feron just looks at him, as though he is waiting for Marcheaux to figure it out himself. He thinks back, but doesn’t have to look far to find that he knows the answer. “Gaston.”

Feron nods, but he doesn’t need to. It all makes sense now. Under Feron’s sole leadership Bourbon Investments never had the notoriety that it now enjoys, despite his academic prowess and business skill. The thing to change in the last three years? Feron’s youngest half-brother abandoning his studies upon reaching the age at which he could inherit his place on the board. A brother who had a track record of drug use, unbeknownst to anyone but close family, and, by extension, Marcheaux himself.

“I was simply keeping the company afloat before, and that was difficult enough.” Feron’s eyes seem to soften. “As you know.”

Marcheaux does—Feron had always come to him as a way to de-stress when he needed it. It feels as though the ground has stabilised beneath him slightly, at the soft remembrance of their shared past.

“Gaston brought with him a way to beat them. It turns out underground dealings are extremely profitable.”

“What, they didn’t teach you that in business school?” Marcheaux chances as a joke.

“Unfortunately not,” Feron responds, a small smile playing on his lips. Then he sobers once more. “I may not be responsible for the solution to my problems, but I agreed to it. I am no saint. But now you know the truth.”

Marcheaux is grateful for that, at least.

“What happens now?” he asks quietly, after a while. He knows that Feron wouldn’t have told him all of this if he intended to let him live. The knot in his stomach tightens.

“Now?” Feron echoes, stepping into Marcheaux’s space so they are barely inches apart. “I rather think I’m going to offer you a job.”

“What?” Marcheaux says, taking half a step back instinctively so that he can see Feron’s face clearly. Out of every scenario he could have imagined, each more gruesome than the last, this was not one of them.

“I could have you killed I suppose,” Feron says thoughtfully, but there’s a levity in his voice that belies his words. “However, you’re of far more use to me alive than you are dead. I need loyal employees, and you know the truth now. That could be a very valuable asset.”  
  
Marcheaux shakes his head in disbelief. “You do realise there’s not much of a choice there, right? Come and work for me, or I’ll have you killed.”

“I don’t do thing by halves,” Feron says, voice low, and Marcheaux cannot deny the fire that sparks within him at the sound.

He almost wishes that the choice was not so easy; that he could stand on the side of morality. Any other person in police training— _D’Artagnan_ , his brain supplies helpfully—would likely rather die than work for a company with questionable investments. But Marcheaux is not one of them. In truth, he’s known it since the day he enrolled. It had been a noble endeavour, with the right intentions, but it was no more than that. He had no calling in it, no innate desire to do right.

He had tried so hard to run away from his past, but this week has made him realise that he could never truly escape from where he belongs—at Feron’s side, and in his bed.

“Did the others get the same choice?” he asks before he gives his answer. “The ones that infiltrated your business,” he clarifies. Treville hadn’t told him what happened to them.

Feron shakes his head. “Grimaud got to them before I even knew. I’m not sure he would have given them much of a choice though.”

Marcheaux knows what that means. No wonder Treville hadn't mentioned that aspect in his briefing.

His brow creases slightly, the obvious question on his tongue. “But you got to me?”

“Quite.” Feron’s throat seems to close on the word.

“Grimaud had plenty of chances to get to me too, once he knew,” Marcheaux points out. “Why didn’t he kill me?”

“Because I begged him not to.” Feron’s voice is raw. “He called me, once your man had confessed, and I pleaded with him to let me talk to you first.” He doesn’t seem the slightest bit ashamed of his desperation.

“And he listened?” Marcheaux can hardly believe it.

Feron’s expression falters—an echo from earlier—and Marcheaux finally reads it for what it is. Worry. Now he understands why they needed to get out of Paris.

“He didn’t, did he? That’s why we’re here.”

Feron nods. “I couldn’t be certain he wouldn’t take matters into his own hands. He did agree to let me talk to you, but I couldn’t guarantee that he wouldn’t change his mind. There’s a lot at stake, for both of us.”

“I know.” Now he knows the lengths Feron has gone to, for him. It’s like Max said, you’ve got to decide where your loyalty lies. Feron made his choice, and it makes Marcheaux’s decision even easier. “And, as to your offer…” he says, “Yes. I’ll take the job.”

Feron visibly relaxes with relief, the tension draining from his body. “I’m sorry I couldn’t give you a better choice,” he says, a litany of apologies on his tongue. “I had no option.” His mouth quirks sadly. “Then again, for all I knew, once I confessed you might have preferred death to ever seeing me again, let alone working for me... Letting me touch you.”

“You idiot,” Marcheaux replies affectionately. “I don’t want anyone else touching me but you.”

“Good,” Feron says.

“I mean it,” he confesses. It feels important that Feron knows this. “I haven’t had any other clients, since you.”  
  
“I know,” Feron says. “That first morning, when I called the agency for your suit measurements, I also told them I wanted you exclusively. That no one else could have you.”  
  
“God,” Marcheaux says in shock, “that must have cost you.”  
  
Feron shrugs. “It’s only money. You must know, you are worth far more than that to me.”  
  
Marcheaux thinks back over the past week, and the years before—over every look, every touch, every word—and finds, to his surprise, that he does know. This is what Feron has been telling him without speaking. This is what his whole body has been saying without Marcheaux realising.  
  
And god, Marcheaux knows now that he has been saying it back; every night, and every morning, he has been replying wordlessly. He had thought that saying it aloud to Max had been the first time he had revealed the truth. How wrong he was.  
  
“I do,” he says, the words a promise—every ounce of the truth he now realises packed into the syllables.  
  
“Thank god,” Feron replies, and pulls him close at last. He holds Marcheaux’s head gently between shaking hands, eyes roving hungrily across his face. “Do you know what Grimaud said to me – that first morning after he broke into my apartment – when I rang him to warn him off you?”  
  
Marcheaux shakes his head, not wanting to speak and break the spell.  
  
“He just said ‘be careful’. At the time, I thought he was warning me not to say too much, reminding me to keep business and pleasure separate. And in a way, he was. But I know now, he wasn’t just talking to me as a businessman. Even without knowing of our past, he could see what I couldn’t, and he saw it right away.”  
  
“What?” Marcheaux murmurs, so low he barely even registers that he’s spoken.  
  
“That you were never just a one-night stand,” Feron says. “That I made a mistake in letting you go, all those years ago. That I should have asked you to stay then, in much the same way as I have asked you to stay now... Because even though I got all the power I ever wanted, it never made up for being powerless in that moment as I watched you walk away from me.”  
  
“Just say it,” Marcheaux dares to whisper. “ _Please_.”  
  
Feron strokes a thumb tenderly across his cheek and replies with certainty. “I love you.”  
  
Marcheaux kisses his reply—his own breathless declaration—into Feron’s hungry mouth, the words swept straight from his tongue.

 

-

 

“I want you inside me,” Feron says later that night, when they’re back at the house. He’s had Marcheaux pinned against the door for the last ten minutes, claiming his lips with his own. Now he takes the opportunity to bite a kiss into Marcheaux’s skin, at the juncture between jaw and neck.

Marcheaux’s hips stutter forwards in agreement before he can even find his voice. “Are you sure?” he asks, unsure why he’s checking. Feron would never say something he doesn’t mean.

Feron answers by crowding him across the room, towards the bed, certainty in every step. He is a man who always gets what he wants, no arguments. Marcheaux would be a fool to try, not least because he wants it too. Badly.

Even now, Feron is in control, although he does allow Marcheaux to unbutton his shirt before turning his own hands to Marcheaux’s, sliding the buttons through the holes with torturous slowness. He supposes Feron is enjoying undressing him for the first time as equals.

The realisation makes him bolder in his own movements and he finds no shame in his desperate unbuckling of Feron’s belt, nor the way he pushes down his trousers with impatience.

Feron’s mouth returns to his, hot and bruising, as they tear the remaining clothes from each other’s bodies.

They fall to the bed in a tangle of limbs, touching as much skin as they can possibly reach. Feron’s hand wraps around his cock and he groans loudly, breath hot against Feron’s ear. His own hand slides down Feron’s spine, savouring the feel of his skin beneath his fingers. Feron pushes his own hips forwards, wrapping his hand around both of them.

“Let me,” Marcheaux manages, covering Feron’s hand with his own until Feron relinquishes control. Feron drops his head and groans open-mouthed against Marcheaux’s neck as he moves his hand up and down their cocks.

“Now,” Feron moans. “I —”

He reaches across to grab the lube from the nightstand, pressing the bottle into Marcheaux’s hand.

“Are you sure?” Marcheaux asks again. He doesn’t want Feron to do this out of some sense that he needs to in order to assure Marcheaux that he is no longer a client.

“Yes,” Feron says immediately, then pauses, seeing the doubt in Marcheaux’s eyes. “ _Yes_ ,” he says again, his voice raw with honesty, letting Marcheaux hear the truth of it. “I want you. I need — I need to feel you, Georges… Do you understand? I need to know that you’re here with me, safe.” His voice shakes slightly, the fear that brought them here resurfacing. Marcheaux strokes a reassuring hand down his arm. “I need to feel you inside me, filling me, to believe it. Okay?”

“Yes,” Marcheaux says, and means it.

He slicks his fingers and carefully eases Feron onto his back, kneeling between his spread legs so he can slide a careful finger inside him, just up to the first knuckle, until Feron is relaxed enough to welcome it fully into his body.

“Okay, mon amour?” he asks, allowing the endearment to slip from lips unchecked. Feron only shudders against him, squeezing his free hand as though in encouragement. Marcheaux pauses in his ministrations before saying, gently, “That’s not a yes.”

Feron’s eyes open and he fixes him with a disorientated smile. “Yes,” he promises, “just, _fuck_ , I’ve never done this before. Feels… weird. Good weird though,” he adds, and clenches around Marcheaux’s finger as though telling him not to withdraw it.

“Okay, good.” He trails a reassuring hand down Feron’s chest and thighs until his finger is moving easily inside him.

“More,” Feron says, and even like this, it doesn’t sound like begging from his lips.

“You’re a very demanding shag,” Marcheaux says, ridiculously overjoyed at the fact he’s free to say it.

Feron laughs breathlessly. “You love it.”

“God help me, I do.”

He obliges by adding a second finger alongside the first. Feron’s moan is guttural, his back arching off the bed at the sensation. Marcheaux waits until both fingers are moving easily inside him once more before adding a third. Feron’s head thrashes against the pillow, mouth parted and eyes screwed shut.

“You’re beautiful,” Marcheaux says with wild abandon, unable to contain the words any longer. “You always have been, but _god_.”

Feron’s eyes open, fixing on his own intently.

“You—?” he begins, but Marcheaux cuts him off before he can voice the question.

“I mean it,” he says. “No man in Paris compares; or anywhere, for that matter. They could never compare.” Something about the sight Feron makes beneath him has him unable to stop speaking now that he has started. It is as though he needs Feron to understand this before he gives himself completely. “They never have. It’s always been you, even — even when I…” Feron entwines his fingers with Marcheaux’s free hand in a reassuring gesture. “I’ve regretted a lot of things in my life,” he says instead, “but I have never once regretted meeting you.”

“I should hope not,” Feron says, but his eyes are soft. Then he clenches deliberately against the fingers inside him. “Now, if you’ve finished with your confession, perhaps you’d consider fucking me.”

It would take a stronger man than Marcheaux to deny him. He slowly removes his fingers, enjoying the way Feron’s breath goes ragged again. He drops to the bed, guided by Feron’s hand, still linked with his, and rolls onto his back when Feron demands it, pressing with an insistent hand against his chest.

The position gives Marcheaux a thought. “Hold on a sec,” he says, rolling away to reach over the bed, “I’ve got an idea.”

He searches blindly through his bag with a desperate hand, reluctant to leave the bed and Feron’s side any further than he already has. At last, success. He pulls out a pair of handcuffs.

“God,” Feron says, and Marcheaux is pleased to have surprised him. “Expecting to use those on me were you?”

“Might have been,” Marcheaux grins, voice low with suggestion. He’s glad he didn’t have to use them for the purpose they were intended. This way is much more fun. “Now you can use them on me instead.” He has no desire to see Feron in chains.

Feron’s smile is positively wolfish. “I’m suddenly very glad you were a policeman, after all.”

“Me too,” he says, passing them over to Feron, who holds them almost reverently, before settling back in his previous position. “Let’s get me inside you first, then you can use them.”

Feron needs no further encouragement, dropping the handcuffs to the mattress and straddling Marcheaux’s hips with strong thighs.

He holds tightly to Feron’s hip with one hand, using the other to position himself, and guides Feron as he sinks down. Their moans mingle together in the space between them as the head of his cock enters him.

He resists the urge to thrust up into Feron’s welcome heat. “You take the lead,” he says, suddenly breathless. “Go as fast or slow as you need.”

Feron seems to take it as a challenge, sinking steadily down until he is settled against Marcheaux’s thighs.

“Fuck,” Marcheaux says, reduced once more to cursing under his breath, his hand tightening against Feron’s hip.

“Quite,” Feron replies, his voice rougher than Marcheaux has ever heard.

Marcheaux looks up at him, tearing his eyes from where they are joined together, to find Feron already gazing at him, eyes dark with pleasure and slightly unfocused. “Alright?” he asks gently.

“Yeah,” Feron says, linking their hands together once more. His free hand trails across Marcheaux’s chest, admiring him with exploratory fingers, before he rests his palm flat against his stomach, using it support his weight as he slowly rises up.

Their wild eyes stay fixed on each other. Feron does not waver in the motion of his hips, moving steadily up and down until the movement is easy.

Then he smiles devilishly and unlinks their fingers. Marcheaux knows what is about to happen, even before Feron reaches for the handcuffs. His breath quickens in anticipation.

Feron rests back onto his thighs and takes hold of Marcheaux’s hand where it still clasps his hip, looping his fingers around his wrist to pull his arm above his head. The movement is gentler now than it might have been, but Feron’s eyes are dark with familiar intent. Marcheaux finds himself lifting his other arm automatically.

Feron smiles as though Marcheaux has pleased him, trailing the backs of his fingers briefly down Marcheaux’s cheek.

“You want this,” he says, and even though it’s not a question, Marcheaux finds himself nodding against the pillow. “Good.”

Feron loops the chain around one of the vertical rails of the headboard with one hand, holding Marcheaux’s wrists together with the other, before shutting the clasps around them. Marcheaux tugs at it experimentally, feeling the metal bite lightly into his skin.

“Good?” Feron asks, his eyes holding him in place as tightly as the handcuffs.

“Yeah,” he responds. “Now, fucking _move_.”

Feron’s soft laugh turns into a moan as he lifts his hips up again, gripping at the headboard for support.

Marcheaux watches the movement of his chest above him, then drops his eyes lower to watch the muscles of his thighs tighten and relax as Feron sinks down onto his cock again and again and again.

“God… I —” he mutters breathlessly, wrists straining against the cuffs.

Feron tucks a hand under his chin to tilt his face up until their eyes meet. He studies Marcheaux intently. Marcheaux knows how he must look; spread out beneath him and thrashing against the sheets as much as he can with his arms cuffed and Feron’s legs either side, pinning him to the bed.

“Okay,” Feron murmurs, like a reprieve. He reaches down to free one of Marcheaux’s hands, leaving the other locked.

“Thank god,” Marcheaux says, curling the fingers of his still-cuffed hand around the rail, anchoring himself, whilst he reaches up with his freed hand to stroke down Feron’s chest.

Feron’s breath hitches as he runs his fingers lightly across his stomach, following the trail of dark hair down. “Stop fucking teasing,” he says, voice low and close to breaking.

Marcheaux huffs a laugh, but obliges, finally wrapping his hand around Feron’s cock.

It’s Feron’s turn to send his own praises to the heavens, his hands dropping from the headboard to clutch at Marcheaux’s shoulders, fingers gripping hard as his movements lose the grace of earlier.

He doesn’t last long after that, chest shaking and a stream of expletives on his tongue as he comes. Marcheaux watches his eyes flutter, unfocused.

“Please,” Marcheaux finds himself saying, close to the edge himself.

Feron clenches around him, muttering wildly, “Yes, yes… Georges.”

It is the cry of his name that undoes him and he follows after Feron, thrusting up into his body as he shakes through his own release.

When he finally opens his eyes Feron is gazing down at him. His expression is almost painfully soft.

“I love you,” Marcheaux says for the second time that night, broken open.

“Good job,” Feron replies with a lazy smile, slipping free so that he can unlock the cuffs and curl next to him, “or this evening could have gone very differently.”

Marcheaux smothers his relieved laugh against Feron’s lips.

 

-

 

He starts working for Feron, officially, on Monday. Somehow, everything that seemed impossible three years ago stretches before him, possible.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I have been writing this in my head for over a year, and on my laptop for the last 6 months, so I really hope you enjoyed reading!
> 
> I will also be posting some graphics and a fanmix for this fic over on my [tumblr](http://skatingthinandice.tumblr.com/tagged/mema-verse)


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